Fifteen
by Sellinea Veradica
Summary: Fifteen years ago, he was the Ministry's top Unspeakable. Fifteen years ago, he was given up for dead. Fifteen years ago, they laid his memory to rest with poignant eulogies and rather more relief than was strictly proper. Now the Dark Lord has risen aga
1. Welcome Home....

Summary:

Fifteen years ago, he was the Ministry's top Unspeakable.

Fifteen years ago, he was given up for dead.

Fifteen years ago, they laid his memory to rest with poignant eulogies and rather more relief than was strictly proper.

Fifteen years later, the Dark Lord is rising again, and they're in for a bit of a surprise.

Spoilers:All four books, eventually.

Author's Note:I'm not sure how much sense this first chapter will make, but I thought I'd give it a try. This is my take on the so far unseen world of the Department of Mysteries. It's a little too Hollywood-ish for my taste, but hey, my muse doesn't seem to care much. She's in charge here, not me, and she's the one, by the way, who made me put down Chapter Ten of Ad Infinitum to get this typed before the idea flew my mind. All complaints can be directed to the little box at the bottom of this screen--I'll see to it that they're forwarded to her immediately.

Disclaimer:I claim very little as my own. Karl Schmidt is mine, though his original identity was based somewhat off a character in the movie my brothers convinced me to watch just this weekend...maybe the name of the opened file will give you a hint, supposing you've watched the movie. Karl will also be figuring in Ad Infinitum shortly, which is actually what I developed his character for. Alice Wilkinson is also mine. Croaker and Bode belong to me, although their names are J. K. Rowling's. In fact, she really owns most of this. It's all J. K., people...as usual!

Fifteen

Chapter One: 

Karl Schmidt was a Muggle.

He also happened to be an Unspeakable in the Ministry of Magic's Department of Mysteries.

It was only because of a series of completely random events that he even knew the wizarding world existed--a series of random events, and the unlikely chance that he happened to be part of the approximately 0.0007% of the population that was resistant to memory charms.

He could recall the day he'd first been hit with one with extraordinary clarity. He'd been walking to a café across the street from where he ostensibly worked--to be precise, he spend a large number of his waking hours in the book shop, but his real job had little enough to do with shelving biographies of Benjamin Franklin and Winston Churchill--when, completely and utterly without warning, four men had dropped directly out of the sky. Wearing long navy robes, carrying thin sticks with sparks shooting out of the ends, and riding on broomsticks.

"Everybody down!" one had shouted in a commanding voice as they hovered ten meters above the street.

When somebody drops out of the sky on a broomstick, stays miraculously in the air, points a sparking firecracker at you, and tells you to get down on the ground, disobeying is not the first thing that generally enters your mind.

Karl had dropped flat on his face (he was to have bruises and abrasions from this for a week afterwards) like everyone else on the street, squinting upwards at the amazing sight. Five more on broomsticks had appeared, these with black robes and masks, and they began shouting things and shooting sparks at each other. Karl had felt several trails of sparks hit the street right next to his body and thought vaguely that he'd never expected to be in a combat situation when he'd gone into Intelligence. Kidnapped, cyanide in his tea, maybe, or a shot from the window, but never anything like this. He'd realized that there was nothing he could do and had buried his face in the ground, arms curled protectively over his head.

When the people in robes had stopped shooting at each other and the dust had settled, Karl had carefully raised his head and looked around. Nearly all of the black-robed people had been lying on the ground, quite obviously dead or unconscious, and one or two of the others as well. The remainder of the men in navy robes had the only black-robe still on his broomstick in a headlock.

There had been complete silence for a good three minutes, at the end of which a new group had arrived on broomsticks. They had moved around on the ground, cleaning up the mess and pointing their thin sticks at people. Karl had been too stunned to say anything or to run away.

"_Obliviate!_" a stout man had said to him, poking him with his stick.

He had abruptly had a brief, intensely painful headache, but Karl had stayed up on his feet, staring, perplexed, at the other man.

"_Obliviate!_" Another short bout of pain had ensued, this one lasting for even less time than the other.

The man had sworn and shouted, "_Stupefy_," and everything had gone completely and utterly black.

He had been rather surprised to hear all about the magical world when he regained consciousness on what looked like an operating room table. He had been told, very calmly and very nicely, that he was in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, and that he'd been caught up in a Ministry attack on some Death Eaters, but he was perfectly fine and had only been stunned. Did he need to use one of their fireplaces, or did he feel up to Apparating back?

He'd gaped at her, and slowly her smile had disappeared. With obvious annoyance, she exclaimed that she'd forgotten again...was he the Muggle that had been brought in today? Never mind, he needn't worry, they'd take care of everything.

She had left the room only to be replaced by the stout man who had knocked him out.

"Mr. Schmidt, there's a lot I need to explain. You had better lie back down."

That had been in the fall of 1976, and he had been only twenty-seven years old.

Now it was the summer of 1995, and he looked like he was about thirty.

That seemed to be one of the side effects of his extremely rare condition; or perhaps it was the fact that he'd been exposed to so much magic in the following years. The wizards and witches he had found himself talking with aged far more slowly than Muggles did, though they didn't mention this for quite some time. Instead, they introduced him to the wizarding world, knowing perfectly well that they couldn't just send him home and ask him to keep quiet about it. It appeared that they intended to keep him occupied with explanations of Quidditch and the monetary system they used until they could think of something to do with him. This plan was immediately discarded when Karl (only, of course, because he was more than a bit disoriented at the time) had mentioned that he was in British Intelligence. He'd found himself whisked away to a Mr. Bartemius Crouch, who, after hearing the fat wizard's story and demanding an explanation of Karl's career thus far, had instantly offered him a job.

It turned out that the Ministry of Magic was a little short on staff at the moment in their efforts against the Death Eaters, and he had just been recruited to work in their Intelligence department.

Karl didn't deem it wise to object.

He was almost used to the magical world by now--he didn't even flinch when stepping into the Floo system anymore, and watching delivery owls swoop by his office window was nothing out of the ordinary. He had found that, while he was the only Muggle currently employed by the Ministry, they also employed several Squibs--that is, people from magical families who were born without the talent themselves. Karl had been tested and re-tested for this magical talent, but he didn't seemed to have more than what was required to make a few sparks fly from the end of a wand, and that was fine with him. He worked just as well for the Ministry as the Squibs did, and better than some of the qualified witches or wizards. That wasn't to say, of course, that magic didn't enter into his life on a daily basis--he now used Floo powder, owl post, and enchanted appliances in his home and had virtually forsaken the Muggle world. He had no family to speak of--his parents had divorced and one lived in America and the other Germany, and neither had ever cared for him very much. His friends in the Muggle world had been practically nonexistent even before he'd been hired by the Ministry of Magic. All in all, as he'd made several good friendships with witches and wizards since then, his life had taken a definite turn for the better since that day so long ago, and he hadn't ever regretted his decision.

It was a sunny June morning in 1995 as Karl walked along Diagon Alley, drawing stares (as usual) due to his light brown suit. As Muggle suits went, it was expensive and extremely nice, but Muggle dress was not ordinarily seen on the wizarding street. Karl didn't mind--he'd tried wearing robes for a few weeks at one point and had found it just too out of the ordinary. At least the way he dressed provided something of a connection to the life he'd left behind.

He passed Gringotts bank and walked right into the small brick building next to it. At first glance, it appeared to be no more than an unused warehouse, dusty and filled with unopened packing crates. Karl, on the other hand, knew the trick to seeing what was really there--you had to tilt your head sideways just slightly and unfocus your eyes. It was rather like those Magic-Eye games he'd never quite succeeded at as a boy. Once he had accomplished this minor feat, the room swam around him for an instant and then a doorway appeared in the wall before him, with a whitewashed staircase leading upwards. He climbed the steps until he reached the first landing, and suddenly, all entrances and exits were closed off. Karl was standing in a small white cubicle, completely alone.

A voice spoke up, though there was no source visible. "Please hold out your wand." Karl dug around in his pockets a moment before finding his--eleven inches and thirteen-sixteenths, thin and supple, made of oak dyed a deep maroon and containing a single merman's hair. Naturally, the most he could do with it was shoot a few silver sparks out the end, but it was his wand nonetheless, and it gave him an identity in this world. He held it out, grasped loosely in his right hand. Immediately, several tiny pinpricks seemed to run up his fingers as he and the wand were examined.

"Approved. Please continue up the stairs to your right."

He did so, stepping up into his office. The first thing he noticed was the light blue slip of paper in his IN tray. The second was the headline on the Daily Prophet newspaper that was lying on his desk.

The voice finished its usual greeting as he picked up the slip of paper and read through it.

"Welcome to the Department of Mysteries, Mr. Schmidt."

********

The file drawer marked "Ænigma" was glowing bright blue.

Alice Wilkinson dropped the folder she had been about to put away in the drawer above that one. Completely ignoring the fact that papers were now spilled all over the floor, she leaned in to peer closely at it. Beneath the word Ænigma was today's date--June 25th, 1995.

An explanation was obvious but mind-boggling: somebody had opened the file earlier this morning. Experimentally, she tugged on the handle. It didn't budge an inch. That was hardly surprising; only three people in the Department of Mysteries had ever been authorized to open that drawer. Two were dead. The third had vowed never to do so, ever since the file had been officially closed on August 1st, 1980.

Someone had reopened the Ænigma files.

********

Bernadine Croaker's mouth was set in a firm line. She was going to get to the bottom of this if it took her all day. Bode _would_ explain this to her! She was one of his finest Unspeakables, after all. Nobody did their job better than she did, and how could she be expected to continue with the wild rumors flying around? It was enough to try anyone's nerves.

Her nerves, tight or not, had little to no effect on her outward appearance. Even the usual rocking, swaying, and occasional shuddering of the department building did nothing to faze her; she just continued walking without missing a beat. Bernadine's shoulder-length brown hair didn't even seem to sway when the floor heaved violently beneath her feet, and the expression on her more-than-pretty face remained constant. She wore long, forest-green robes that brushed the carpet as she walked, carrying her head high and keeping her steel gray eyes straight ahead. A thick gold ring encircled the fourth finger of her left hand. Some might have taken it for a wedding or an engagement ring, but Bernadine Croaker had never entertained any notions of being anything but firmly single. That was the rule, rather than the exception, in the Department of Mysteries. None of the Unspeakables were allowed to marry, court, or form any deep friendships outside of the Department, a simple matter of secrecy. This seemed harsh to many outsiders, but none of the Unspeakables objected. They were married to their work, and it was only on very rare occasions that any two members managed to form a non-job-related relationship. It happened, but not to Bernadine Croaker. She was dedicated to the point of obsession. That was another of the criteria for belonging to the Department.

Her day had started out normally. She'd woken at five, arrived at the Ministry buildings half an hour later, and had met with the Auror's assembly in order to bully them into allowing the Department free rein on the tissue samples St. Mungo's had collected from the Pi-Virus victims. She had then spent another hour or two interviewing the said victims and performing memory charms to cover up her tracks. The disease was easily cured, but it should not have been released into the general population. More tests needed to be performed to ascertain whether the benefits of its strengthening powers were greater than the downsides--flu-like symptoms and abdominal swelling. Yes, some more tests would need to be run. At nine, she had talked Sarah Thompson out of her ridiculous notions about their Invisibility capabilities. Certainly, it was much more convenient to be able to render yourself unseen without the use of a wand, cloak, or potion, but that was no reason that anyone outside of the Department should be able to do it. Self-induced invisibility was one of their greater secrets, and she would as soon release the Pi-Virus to Death Eaters as let anyone outside of the Department--much less their incompetent Minister and the general public, bless their souls!--know about the spell.

Then she had gone to the records department to get a file on the Egyptian Floo network, only to find Alice Wilkinson on the verge of hysterics. The Ænigma files should never have been reopened. Even Bernadine had no idea what they were, and she wanted nothing but to keep it that way. Fifteen minutes later, her Daily Prophet had been delivered, along with an urgent message from the Minister of Magic himself. The Prophet said that the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament had been completed just the last night, and one of the two Hogwarts champions had been killed. The other, Harry Potter, had walked away with the thousand-galleon prize.

Fudge had said, in his letter, that it was urgent that Croaker and Bode, along with the other Unspeakables, be informed that Potter and Albus Dumbledore had come up with the insane idea that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had returned and murdered the other Hogwarts champion. He went into very little detail besides ordering them not to believe a word of it if approached with the story.

He should have known better. Nobody, particularly the Minister of Magic, tells the Department of Mysteries what to do.

Bernadine had immediately left her office for her Head of Department's workplace. Like all the other Unspeakables' offices, his branched off of the impossible maze of corridors that floated, completely unnoticed, hundreds of meters above the London streets, which contributed to the constant rolling and heaving of its floors as she moved confidently along. Her firm resolve was completely impenetrable--she had never before been taken in by wild rumors, never backed down from a challenge, and never displayed anything but the utmost strength of character. She was going to get to the bottom of this if she had to pick Cerberus Bode up by the scruff of the neck and shake the facts out of him.

The Department Head's office door was slightly open already, so she didn't bother to knock. Instead, Bernadine gave it a good, hard shove and walked right in.

"Cerberus," she began without preamble, fixing her eyes on the fraction of Bode's head that she could see above his reclining dragon-leather desk chair, "what's going on? I got a letter from the Minister just now about the Triwizard Tournament, and the Daily Prophet's concealing something...they didn't go into any detail about the third task. And the Ænigma files--what in Merlin's name is going on? You swore when you became Head of Department never to look at those again. There's rumors traveling around like you wouldn't believe. Somebody said Postumus Rookwood walked into the offices this morning, which is the most abject nonsense I've ever heard. Cerberus, are you list--"

She cut off suddenly as she became aware of another figure in the room with them. Turning slowly, Bernadine was shocked to find Cerberus Bode standing just behind her, white-faced and with sweat running down his usually quite attractive face. That in and of itself was surprising enough, but who on earth....

Bernadine looked back at the chair, which had gradually begun to swivel around. The man in it was not, as she'd assumed, their current Head of Department. He had deep brown, almost black hair, with two streaks of gray running from his temples, piercing dark eyes, and a polished elegance in every move. There was a manila envelope clasped in his right hand; much of the contents was stacked neatly on the desk. A single word, Ænigma, crossed its orange-brown surface. His eyes were fixed on the lamp in the ceiling, but when he had turned to face her completely, they slowly moved downwards to rest on his face. Those gracefully-carved lips curved in a tight smile.

"Bernadine; it's been quite some time since we met last, hasn't it? I'm astounded...you two have managed to keep the place up rather nicely."

She let out a choked sort of gasp and crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.

Confused yet? So am I. So did you like it, or should I forget it and devote all my resources to Ad Infinitum?


	2. ...With Open Arms

Summary:

Fifteen years ago, he was the Ministry's top Unspeakable.

Fifteen years ago, he was given up for dead.

Fifteen years ago, they laid his memory to rest with poignant eulogies and rather more relief than was strictly proper.

Fifteen years later, the Dark Lord is rising again, and they're in for a bit of a surprise.

Spoilers: All four books, eventually.

Disclaimer: I claim very little as my own. Karl Schmidt is mine, though his original identity was based somewhat off a character in the movie my brothers convinced me to watch just recently...maybe the name of the opened file will give you a hint, supposing you've watched the movie. Karl will also be figuring in Ad Infinitum shortly, which is actually what I developed his character for. Postumus Rookwood and the Ænigma files are mine--Augustus Rookwood belongs to J. K. Rowling. Croaker and Bode belong to me, although their names are J. K. Rowling's. In fact, she really owns most of this. It's all J. K., people...as usual!

Note: Yes, I'm working on Chapter 10 of Ad Infinitum, but I've contracted a minor case of writer's block as far as it's concerned. The best medicine for that dread disease is usually to work on something else for a bit, so here goes. Bug me about it if you like, that's what the review box is for.

Fifteen

Chapter Two: With Open Arms

Karl stared down at the paper, rereading it in complete and utter astonishment.

Schmidt--

Meet me at my office as soon as convenient. Bring your wand.

Rookwood

Rookwood. He'd known two men named Rookwood. One was still in Azkaban, supposing he'd survived his time there. The other was dead.

He sank into his chair, running a hand through his hair. Shaking his head to clear it, Karl set the paper down and reached for the _Prophet_. He needed a moment before carrying out the self-assured orders on the message. Glancing over the front page, he noted with some surprise that there was nothing on the Triwizard Tournament. As he searched the headlines for something he felt he ought to know, a tiny column at the bottom of the second page caught his eye.

****

Muggle Found Beaten to Death in Knockturn Alley

__

A Muggle man of about forty-five was discovered late last night just outside of the Banshee's Grin, the most frequented pub in Knockturn Alley, London. Time of death has been estimated at approximately seven o' clock. Ministry officials have not revealed suspects in the murder or possible reasons for his presence on the magical street.

Though the Muggle has not yet been identified, an ID from the Muggle Ministry (in a nearly illegible condition) was discovered on his person. The man was five-foot eleven, with short blond hair and brown eyes. He was wearing a pair of thick spectacles with gold wire twined around the rims, a navy pinstriped suit, and carrying a briefcase with the initials "AMH" on the handle. Inside the briefcase were assorted documents of a financial nature, though none lent a clue as to his identity. The means of death are uncertain and could have been any one of his injuries, including a cracked skull and markings around the neck suggesting strangulation.

When asked if the incident would affect business, Herreus Dumme, the proprietor of the Banshee's Grin, said only, "Nah, people around here don't care much about that sort of thing. Happens all the time."

"This has been a terrible, and worst of all, avoidable, tragedy," says Edgar Greenbroch of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. "It wouldn't have happened, of course, had he not left Muggle London. Our Ministry needs to push for reforms in the areas of magical concealment. As stated only last month, the wards over the entrances to wizarding areas, including the Leaky Cauldron, are in a sad state of disrepair. The administration...."

Karl let the paper fall from his hand, taking several deep breaths to calm his nerves. This was too much just now. He had an appointment to keep, but first he was taking a detour. It wouldn't be a pleasant trip, but would be one he was not unused to.

"The Ministry Morgue," he said clearly to the door. It shone brightly for an instant, and he reached for the knob.

Karl emerged into a very long, tidy room with black tiling and white wallpaper. Along one wall was a window that opened into an office. He approached the witch standing there.

"Hello," he said politely. "I'd like to be taken to the Muggle that was brought in last night. I think I can identify him."

"Name, please?"

"Karl Schmidt."

She scribbled it down on a sheet of notepaper. "Hank! Take this man down to A. Doe, will you? Says he might know who he is."

A wizard wearing the white uniform of the St. Mungo's doctors waved Karl to a door, leading him into the dim corridor and down the hall. Karl's shoes echoed sharply against the black tiles, keeping time as they walked. "In here, Mr. Schmidt." Hank opened one of the many doors lining the walls and they turned into a long room, lit only by a single lamp in the middle of the ceiling. It was cold, and Karl shivered instinctively as he looked down the rows of covered stretchers.

Hank walked immediately to one of the stretchers and waited for Karl to join him. Karl nodded, and he pulled the sheet up and several feet towards the end of the stretcher. Though he'd been exposed to the sight of death many times before, Karl had to work to keep his face straight and his breath from catching.

He was a ghastly sight indeed--the whole face was disfigured and covered in dried blood and bruises. Both eyes were shut, one so swollen that Karl could barely see the lashes. Hank reached below the stretcher for a bundle of clothing, some twisted pieces of wire, and several thick shards of glass.

"That's what he was wearing."

Karl looked a question at the doctor, who nodded. He gingerly picked up one of the wire spectacle frames and looked closely at it, then set it back down on the navy suit.

"Arnold Harvey," Karl said, looking back at the unrecognizable face. "I worked with him for quite some time and haven't seen him in years. Those are his glasses, though, and he always wore a pinstriped suit like that one." He hesitated, unsure of why he was about to ask this, and then went impetuously with his gut feeling.

"I need to have a look at his briefcase and the contents of his pockets, if I may."

"Mr. Schmidt, I'm not sure--"

Karl pulled out his Ministry ID and flashed it at the doctor, whose eyes widened slightly before he bent down to replace the suit and glasses. "You'll have to come with me, they're in a different room."

The storage room was filled with filing cabinets, each so small Karl thought they wouldn't hold more than a stack of index cards. However, when Hank pulled out one of the drawers, it magically expanded itself to the size needed to hold a briefcase and various other items. Karl reached inside and pulled them carefully out, setting each on a table that was conveniently near to hand. A muddy and torn pocket handkerchief, the snapped and scratched ID, and a small handgun containing only one bullet. Karl's eyebrows rose--this was a tiny little thing that wouldn't hold more than four bullets. Few people used something that small, but then again, Arnold had never been one for convention. He assumed the man had had his reasons. A quick examination showed that at least one had been fired. Karl was by no means an expert on firearms, but it seemed likely to him that Arnold had kept all four chambers filled.

He opened the briefcase and took out the papers, glancing through them. The stack was barely an inch thick and contained nothing but insurance. Karl put them back into the briefcase and closed the lid.

"I want these sent to my office," he told Hank immediately. "As soon as you can. I'm afraid I need to go."

"Thank you, Mr. Schmidt. I'll have them sent along right away."

Karl nodded and walked back to the reception area. The door would still take him back to his office, but it would work only for him. As he hurried along the halls in the Department of Mysteries, he puzzled over the message he'd received, putting Arnold away into the back of his mind--there would be time enough to deal with that later.

But the note. What office was he supposed to go to? He decided to start with the Head's, as Postumus Rookwood had been the chief Unspeakable before his death almost fifteen years ago. Who on earth could have sent it? Certainly not Rookwood himself. Was it somebody's bad idea of a joke?

Upon arriving at the office he was looking for, Karl stopped at the door, which was open a crack, and froze. He knew the amused voice that was coming from inside the room.

"How charming," it said. "And ladylike. I would hardly have expected it of her."

"Stay away from her!" came Cerberus Bode's harsh, fearful voice. "Don't come near either of us. I want some explanations."

"All in good time, Cerberus. There is no need to look at me that way, it is only I."

"You're--"

"Dead. I find the thought incredibly amusing. _Ennervate!_"

A soft moan came from somewhere near the floor. "Bernadine, my dear, do get to your feet. You look uncharacteristically disheveled down there."

Bernadine Croaker said dryly, "I expect I do. Help me up, Cerberus. Rookwood, what in Merlin's name are you doing here?"

"Explanations later, Bernadine. I strongly suspect that there is someone outside the door. Will you invite him in?"

Karl pushed the door open before she could reply. "What's going on?"

Rookwood gave him a pleased smile. "Ah, Schmidt. You received my message, I take it?"

"I did. And now I'd like to receive some explanations, if you don't mind."

"Actually, I do. And as your Head of Department, I would advise you not to object."

"You're not the Head of Department," Croaker said tightly.

Rookwood sank languidly into Bode's dragon leather desk chair. "But of course, I am. Cerberus was chosen because I was dead. Now, that is no longer the case, and we can pick up where I left off. Though, incidentally, you have done a wonderful job keeping things in order--except for the Ænigma files, which have been sadly neglected. I see no progress recorded since August 1st, 1980."

"I closed the files the day after you died and vowed never to open them again," Bode replied harshly, though cold sweat was running down his face. He wiped it away with one hand. "It was for everyone's good."

"An admirable, touching sentiment, but very melodramatic, Cerberus, and hardly practical. The files could have been put to a great deal of use over the last fifteen years."

"What _are_ the Ænigma files?" Croaker demanded.

Karl broke in impatiently. "Aren't we getting a bit off subject?"

"Defer to your superiors, Schmidt!"

"My apologies, Mr. Bode. I meant no disrespect."

"He does have a point, Cerberus. Rookwood, where on earth have you been?"

"All in good time. Bernadine, Cerberus, please wait outside the office. I need a word with Schmidt."

Bode went red with indignation. "I'll admit that you've shocked us, Rookwood, but that's no reason to allow you to undermine my authority."

"You have no authority."

Bode raised his wand at Rookwood, but the other man merely waved a hand in his direction. "Out, Bode."

"_Stupefy!_"

A jet of red sparks shot out of the wand, but it had hardly traveled two inches when it hit an unseen force and rebounded back onto the wand. Bode dropped it, staring down at his hand in amazement.

"Out, both of you. Wait in the hall. I will call you in when I need you."

Bode and Croaker left the office without further objection.

"Sit down, Schmidt." Rookwood waved one hand at the chair opposite his desk.

"I'll stand, thank you."

"Sit down, Schmidt."

Karl sat.

"Thank you." He leaned forward, steepling his hands and resting his chin on perfectly-manicured fingertips.

"I haven't seen you for quite some time, sir."

"Indeed."

"Word had it you were dead."

"I was aware of that fact, Schmidt."

"What did you want to see me about?"

"Patience is a virtue."

"It's a virtue that isn't always entirely practical. If I remember correctly, you were very fond of practicalities, sir."

"And still am."

"About that...."

"No, I am not going to explain why I am alive. Efficiency is also a virtue--one I was also very fond of--and there is no need for you to know where I have been for fifteen years, at least not at this point."

"What do I need to know?"

Rookwood picked up a stack of parchment on the desk and began sorting through it. After a moment's search, he pulled out a Muggle photograph.

"Do you know this man?"

"Arnold Harvey," Karl said slowly. "British Intelligence. He was my superior for a few years before I threw my lot in here. He died last night, beaten to death in Knockturn Alley."

Rookwood raised his eyebrows. "How do _you_ know that?"

"I identified him at the morgue just a few minutes ago. How did you know?"

"That is also irrelevant at this point. What is relevant is that this man was connected with the Ænigma files, and that was why he was murdered."

"_What?_" It came out in a whisper, but Karl was gratified that he managed to keep his face largely impassive.

"You heard me, Schmidt."

"Arnold was a Muggle. They don't even know how he got in--"

"Arnold Harvey," Rookwood replied, that odd smile crossing his face again, "was not a Muggle."

The only sound audible for several long seconds was the ticking of the grandfather clock on the wall.

Karl swallowed and forced the words out. "Of course he was. He had no magical powers at all. Do you think he could have concealed them for all those years?"

"Arnold Harvey was a Muggle until about sixteen and a half years ago, Schmidt."

"You're talking nonsense."

"No, I am talking about the Ænigma Project. Harvey was one of the very few that knew about it."

Karl felt like he could really have gone for an aspirin or two right about then. Or some painkiller spells.

"The Ænigma Project dealt--deals--with power transference. Not creation--like matter and other forms of energy, there is only a finite amount of magic in the universe--but transference. One person gives up a bit, or all, of their power to someone else."

"I had no idea any such process existed."

"Very few people do. This is the Department of Mysteries, remember. And this process is a dangerous weapon--the consequences of it falling into the wrong hands will be inconceivable."

"Will?"

"It is only a matter of time now, unless we can stop it."

"Who's trying, then?"

"The Death Eaters."

Karl shook his head. "There's no way they could have the organization left over after all these years--"

"They have a leader."

"Who? That Malfoy character? Somehow, I can't see him pulling anything as complicated and fine-tuned as all this."

"He is not. The Dark Lord has returned."

This was really just a bit too much. Karl rose to his feet, staring across the desk at Rookwood's impassive face.

"Did you read the article in the Daily Prophet about the third task of the Triwizard Tournament?"

"I didn't see it, sir," Karl managed.

"Harry Potter won. Cedric Diggory, the other Hogwarts champion, was murdered by one of _his_ followers, soon before he was returned to a body. The Prophet said nothing about it, naturally. Fudge refused to believe it. But we know that it is true. Do not for a moment entertain a thought of asking how."

"But what does it have to do with me? And how can we possibly--"

"Sit back down, Schmidt. I will explain in due time.

"Now, would you please hand me your wand?"

Karl did so, slowly removing it from his pocket and laying it down on the desk. Rookwood picked it up and, not even using it to cast a spell (as far as Karl could tell), he muttered in the softest of voices, "_Prior Incantato_."

A heavy cloud of gray smoke erupted from the end of the wand. Its soundless scream seemed to vibrate off the walls--Karl threw himself backward in his chair and Rookwood dropped the wand--and the cloud exploded silently, reaching the far corners of the room and then disappating, though it left a burning black mark on the glossy desktop.

The only remnant of the smoke was a small, lightning-shaped streak that hung in the air, and then that too disappeared.

Sigh. Seventeen reviews. Wow. Here's a quick response to each of you:

My first reviewer--sorry, I didn't have time to save yours before I got up over the 15 reviews limit. My apologies, and thank you.

Sean A Green--An unspeakable is someone who works for the Department of Mysteries. See Chapter Seven of Goblet of Fire--Mr. Weasley talks about them to Harry. Top of page 86, American edition.

__

"That's Bode and Croaker...they're Unspeakables...."

"They're what?"

"From the Department of Mysteries, top secret, no idea what they get up to...."

Katie--Glad you're enjoying it so far; don't worry, there'll be much more to come.

Martin Miggs (The Mad Muggle, I presume?)--You think it's intriguing? Good, it should get more so. Thanks!

Laura--Thanks for the review, and I hope you're enjoying it!

Tahyla--I've thought about Muggles a lot too. We know, for instance, that the Muggle Prime Minister knows about the magical community, so there must be more out there.

Emu--I like Karl too. He was originally intended to be a minor character, but as I developed the plot in my mind and got to know him, I decided he'd be one of the central protagonists.

Ellie Granger--More coming!

Episcopal Witch--Hopefully, I'm not confused enough that I have no clue where I'm going. Several late-night brainstorming sessions have helped. If you like my stories about the bureaucracy, you'll enjoy "Bartemius Crouch Presiding" (see summary on my author's biography), soon to be posted (I hope!). Thanks, as always, for your review! (And post something soon)

Solitary Starlight--Not Voldemort, actually, but good guess. You can't really tell, as it's a new character. You'll find out more in this chapter. Thanks for the compliments!

...--Writing more as I speak! (type, whatever)

Unshed Tears--The movie was U-571, and I thought I'd hate it. Instead, I'm in love with it, which is funny, because that's not usually the sort of thing I'd like. Karl was originally based (very loosely, mind you) on Mr. Hirsch, for those of you who've seen it.

Sakuya-chan--Glad you like it.

LadyVoldemort--It was, rather, wasn't it?

Mage Legacy--Here's the next part, since you asked; I hope you enjoy it!

Gieschbrecht--Are you from the Netherlands, then, or do you just speak a bit (or a lot, either one) of the language? Just wondering--I'm glad you're interested. And I love THAT Poe, by the way. Have you read his poem "The Conqueror Worm"? It's my favorite....I have to confess, I didn't find the Fellowship of the Rings quite as wonderful as other fantasy books, but the Hobbit was superb. I'm going to finish up on the rest of the Lord of the Rings, thanks for reminding me. My to-read list is growing too quickly to remember everything.

Amadeus--I'm glad you've enjoyed it so far.

BTW, did anyone notice anything important about the date of Postumus Rookwood's presumed demise?


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